As a child, I often dreamed of a more glamorous, more “successful” life. One of my classmates had a dad who was a surgeon, another had a mom who was a high-powered lawyer. They lived in beautiful homes that smelled like polish and new leather, drove luxury sedans, and wore suits that looked like they came straight out of a magazine.
And then there was my dad. Luc.
A motorcycle mechanic. Hands stained with grease, worn-out boots, a scruffy beard. He used to pick me up from school on his old, loud Harley that roared through the courtyard. Worn leather vest, tattoos on his forearms, scratched sunglasses. A sight I dreaded.
I avoided him.
One day, in middle school, I saw him waiting for me through the hallway window. My friend Julie raised an eyebrow: “Is that your dad?”
“No, just Luc. He works at the garage near my house,” I replied coldly.
I called him by his first name. Not “Dad.” Not at school. Not even at home. Keeping him at a distance felt easier. Less embarrassing. Less painful.
He never said a word about it.
Even when I made up stories about my family for school projects, he just smiled gently and said, “If it helps you shine, sweetheart, then tell them whatever you need.” There was a sad sparkle in his eyes, but he never held it against me.
I still remember the last time he looked at me. It was the day of my college graduation.
He stood there among the other parents. Clean jeans, a pressed shirt, trimmed beard. He had even combed his hair. In his large, rough hands, he held a bouquet of wildflowers.
All around us, families in elegant clothes took photos. Their watches gleamed. Compliments flew. And in the middle of that picture-perfect scene stood Luc.
At the end of the ceremony, he walked toward me, arms open.
“I’m so proud of you,” he said, voice trembling.
I didn’t answer. I just held out my hand. “Thanks, Luc.”
His smile faltered. He looked at my hand like he didn’t recognize it. Then he shook it. Quietly.
Three weeks later, the phone rang.
An accident. Motorcycle. Instant death. No pain, they said.
I didn’t cry. Not right away. I thought that was normal. We weren’t that close, right? He’d had his life. And I had mine to build.
But everything changed at his funeral.
I expected a quiet service. A few cousins. Maybe his buddy Gus. But the church was full. Bikers, teenagers, grandmas, moms with kids. All there for him.
A former soldier shook my hand: “Your dad came to visit my son every Tuesday at the hospital. Brought him coffee and magazines. Never missed a visit.”
An elderly woman hugged me: “Luc fixed my heating for free. Even brought me soup when I had the flu. Who does that anymore?”
A teenage boy whispered in my ear: “He taught me mechanics. He believed in me when my parents had given up.”
And the stories kept coming.
“He delivered supplies to the whole neighborhood after the flood.”
“He kept the community center running when no one else would.”
“He never talked about himself. He just did things. Then quietly left.”
I stood frozen. They knew him better than I did.
That evening, I went back to his workshop. The light above the workbench was still on. His tools were lined up perfectly, like a quiet shrine. On the wall, among the engine diagrams and old calendars, a photo.
Me, five years old, on his shoulders. Crooked pink helmet, cheeks full of laughter. And him, eyes closed in bliss.
I broke down.
On the table, there was an envelope. My name, written in shaky handwriting.
**“My sweet girl,
If you’re reading this, it means I’m no longer around. I hope I told you how much I loved you, how proud I always was. I knew I embarrassed you sometimes. I could feel it. But I never held it against you.
You wanted something different. Something bigger. And that’s okay.
But I hope that one day you’ll understand—fixing motorcycles wasn’t just mechanics. It was my way of helping people move forward.
You were always my engine.
Don’t let regret weigh you down. Live. Really live.
And if one day you feel like it… the Harley is yours.
I love you,
Dad.”**
Those words changed everything.
In the weeks that followed, I cleaned out his garage. Not out of obligation. But because I needed to. I learned how to change oil, to name the tools. I listened to the old rock records he loved. And one Sunday morning, I started the Harley.
I was trembling. The noise, the speed, the wind—it shook me to my core. But in my mind, I heard his voice:
“Keep steady, sweetheart. Lean into the curve.”
So I did.
Since then, every Sunday, I ride. Along his routes. In his silence. I stop at the same café where he always left a little extra tip. In my jacket pocket, a photo of him—right against my heart.
And when someone asks me where the bike came from, I answer with a smile:
“It belonged to my father.”
He wasn’t a lawyer. Or a doctor.
He was a mechanic. Strong. Quiet. Deeply kind.
And he loved me more than I ever understood…
Until I finally climbed onto his bike.